Snapshots of crazy stuff our fathers did that we cannot forget

 Shot of a father teaching his little son how to shave in the bathroom at home. (Courtesy)

There is a picture of me and my father. I am about three years old, and seated on his lap. ‘Jesus’ is standing in a nearby picture. And dad has been caught red-handed by mum, who has a Kodak camera, giving me a tot of vodka in my orange juice.

My late mum told that story for years, ending with “can you imagine, Baba Tony!?”

And my old man would laugh it off and say he was just giving me ‘a little bit of Vitamin ‘V’,’ to make ‘Thorny a strong poy!’ A former boxer, the man was obsessed with the notion of ‘strength.’

If you cried about anything, he would take a belt and whip you hard with it to “kiff you something to really weep about like a little girl.”

Yet we did not consider ourselves as being abused. In fact, it was great training for taking one’s lumps, and toughing it out in a world of which the slogan now is ‘Earth is hard.’

My dad not only brought us nyama choma from the bar (in his pocket) for us to enjoy in post-midnight meals, he once ferried home a bar stool from a pub called Jeans (other walevis would crook ashtrays) and even a bard called Daudi Kabaka, whom he forced to play songs at 3am for mum, shouting: “I bought you beers and I am giving you boarding, so you must play guitar for my wife.”

Every time I hear Kujisifu Ulevini or Nyama Kilo Moja, I go back to that Kabaka 3am

Fathers with food and goodies

Human rights’ activist Wanjeri Nderu-Musembi fondly recalls how her dad would wake them up at 11pm to share meat with him. She also says he taught them Mugithi.

Esther Wanjiru says her father, too, was from that tukule nyama usiku wa manane WhatsApp group, but in her case, she would often refuse to wake up. “Why would I want to eat meat at 2am, like a witch?” she poses.

Jakamima Mamora believes these were ‘mzee tactics’ to ensure food left by peeved housewives did not have extra ‘fatal ingredients.’

“When a man hears a woman say “siku moja ntakuwekea rat rat, you must have kids as human shields, toto as food taster,” she says.

Lawyer Skeeter Kerubo blames her ‘childhood obesity’ on being forced to eat two dinners daily.

“I would eat my food jioni at threat from my mom,” she says, “but then my dad would come and insist I share his giant plate of ugali, plantains, etc.”

She also says Safari Boots remind her of her father. “Every Xmas, we would go to Bata – and he would get a pair for himself, my big brother and myself.”

Khalai Jimase remembers a father who would finish his money, not on booze, but bar hawkers.

“He would come late at night, penniless; but with a purse for my mom, a jacket for me, and a jaunty kofia sitting on his head, like a one-man guitar guy.”

Caroline Kenyanna laughingly recalls her father forever trying to teach them Michael Jackson moves ... in public. “He once fell doing the backslide. I was sooo embarrassed. And he was so terrible at the moonwalk.”

Aganda Onyango says his father did not wait for women to wait on him, when growing up.

“My dad would wake me up at 4am. We would pray, then I would iron his shirt and trouser, brush his shoes and wait for him to have his breakfast. I would open the gate for the car at 5.30am sharp. As other children groaned when that radio jingle amka kumekucha came on, I was long awake.”

Aganda says, in this way, their father taught them not to be lazy, and work hard from first light.

Alfred Osoti says when he hears the words ‘school fees,’ his father immediately springs to mind.

“My father always told me – ‘’These school fees I pay are not so I am dependent on you one day, they are so that you are independent one day,’” and warn him not to mess his education.

Alfred says every start of term, they would go to pay school fees to the headmaster with his dad.

“These fees are not for your headmaster,” his father would lecture, “they are for your future! These school fees are your car, these school fees are your house. These fees are your wife, these fees are the fish you will eat in the future! Do not mess your school fees up.”

Dads and daughters

There are girls with ‘daddy issues,’ but surprisingly, almost all the women who responded to this writer had fond memories of their fathers, whether eccentric to outright outlandish.

Miriam Mbuko says her dad would go drinking at the neighbouring village.

“About 500 metres from the homestead, you would hear him sing praise songs about his late mother. Then he would stop, and my mom would send my two brothers to get him. Sometimes he would refuse to get up from the road till my mother came for him, then he would sing songs about what strong sons, and a good, caring wife, he had.”

The funny thing was, once home, he would remove fruit, meat, eggs and bread and present them only to the girls.

“These young ladies are your future wealth in dowry,’ her daddy would say, “so let them eat well, because men do not want to marry women who are as thin as sticks.”

Everlyne Kareithi, who is now 25, with a five-year-old boy (whom her father adores) says her father “tells every embarrassing story about me, including how I would shout in mathrees that I want to pee.” She says as a tomboy, she did everything with her dad, from building sheds to slaughtering goats, “but I was still a total daddy’s girl. To date my father still calls me little baby girl ...”

Everlynn Chelangat has a hilarious tale of how they were so many “my father mixed us up.” In lower primary school, she would run home to eat ugali and mala with her father. Then he would say, “Okay, run back to school,” thinking she was her elder sister. “We close at noon, papa!” she would say.

Then he would peer at her to try and figure out who she was.

But even in high school, “he would come looking for me from class to class, because he had no idea what Form I was in, in any given year.”

He cared about her ‘form,’ though, once threatening a school cook, “nirudi nipate bado msichana wangu amekonda, utaona cha mtema kuni.”

Chelangat concludes: “My dad may have had no idea when my birthday was, but he knew who I was – sort of – and that we needed clothes on our back, a roof over our heads, school fees paid and food on the table.”

In the end, isn’t that really what the role of a father, and measure of a man, is?